


The Spirit of the West

by WickedWitchOfWriting



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: "Arthur Morgan x oc", Arthur Morgan (red dead redemption) / original female character - Freeform, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedWitchOfWriting/pseuds/WickedWitchOfWriting
Summary: When Violet Reid agrees to take a gentleman out shooting, she doesn't expect to find herself becoming a part of the Van Der Linde gang, and she certainly doesn't expect to have feelings for one of the most dangerous men west of Saint Denis. But Arthur Morgan isn't at all the type of man she thought an outlaw would be.





	1. Chapter 1

“Excuse me, Miss?”

My head jerks up in surprise and –

“OW!” I yelp, my head cracking off the top of the counter I’d been rummaging underneath. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the store, let alone approach the damn till, and now the back of my head is throbbing in pain. With a groan, I rub at the back of my head, wincing where the skin feels tender.

The man before me grimaces when I stand, my face undoubtedly sour from the accident he’d unwittingly caused, “Sorry, I uh, I didn’t mean to startle you there. Are you alright, Miss?”

“Fine. Fine, I’m fine,” I say, smiling despite the dull ache, and let my gaze flicker over him. Usually, the men who come through the small town of Valentine fit into two categories; lawmen and fancy-men. This gentleman, however, was neither of those, though he was certainly more handsome than both with those kind, concerned eyes and a soft ghost of a smile. He’d removed a dusty old hat to reveal honey-brown hair that darkened into a prickling of beard across his jawline. Briefly, I wonder whether his hair is as soft as it looks, my fingers twitching at the thought, but I quickly recover. I blame the bump to my head for my wandering thoughts, and clear my throat. “Now then, Sir. How can I help you? You looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes, Miss, I am. Do you have a varmint rifle in stock here?” He glances around the store, undoubtedly wondering whether we actually have  _ anything _ in stock. Frankly, it’s a wonder we’re still open at all with such sparse shelves; our next shipment won’t arrive for another week or so. I make a mental note to remind my da to send for new stock  _ before _ we run out of the old one.

_ Varmint rifle, varmint….  _ I mull the words over for a moment before really registering what he’s asked me for. I tuck a lock of auburn hair behind my ear. “It’s a little late to be going hunting ain’t it? I was about to shut shop when you came on in here. I think we should have one out back, if you just give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

He mutters something of an  _ alright _ under his breath and gives me an awkward, unpracticed smile that makes me hesitate slightly, wondering just how such a rough-and-ready looking fella could come by my little store without kicking up much of a fuss. I slip through the door into the shop’s storage room and begin my hunt. The room is a mess most of the time, but there are only a few weapons and a scattering of ammunition littering the room now. Even so, my search seems a struggle. We seem to have an abundance of scoped rifles, and one Litchfield, but unless someone has stowed away the only varmint rifle on the very top shelf (something which I must  _ repeatedly  _ remind my father not to do, because even in my heeled shoes, I’m too damned small to be able to safely grab anything from up there), we’re all out of them. My heart sinks a little, knowing that I’ll be disappointing him. Chewing on my lower lip, I wonder whether it may be worth asking how long he’ll be staying around town I could always send away for one and it might arrive in a week or two? But what would he do while waiting? I pause, thinking.

“Hey, Mister?” I call, popping my head around the door and flashing him my most winning smile. “How long will you be in these parts? I could see about getting you one, if need be?”

I could swear that he falters a little when he sees me smiling at him, but he recovers so quickly that I could have simply imagined the charming flush to his cheeks. “I uh, I’m none too sure, miss. I don’t have any plans to move on real soon, if that’s what you’re asking, but things could change. You know how it is.”

“Sure thing, Mister.” I don’t know how it is; I’ve rarely left this crappy little down my whole life, except for when I go shooting in the woodland or when I ride over to Strawberry. My accent is nothing more than an echo of my father’s strong Scottish twang, only present at all because of how much time I spent around him. I offer another smile, “Though maybe you could rent my own gun and pay me the rest when a new one arrives, if you’re still here?”

He quirks a brow. “You shoot?”

“Sure. Don’t let this pretty dress fool you; I’m a mean shot. Hell, I reckon I could out-shoot any of the men in this town, even if they won’t admit that a woman’s better than them at  _ anything _ ,” I boast, though I don’t particularly expect him to believe me. They never do. “How come you think my da lets me run the store?”

With an appreciative nod, he gives me a more lingering look up and down. Something tightens in my core as I see his eyes rake over my form. “Sure, I’d like to loan your rifle if you can spare it. How much? And I’m trusting you’ll know the best hunting areas this side of Strawberry, if you know your way around a gun so good?”

“Yes sir. And if you'd like, you can loan it for a few days for just twenty dollars. I'll deduct the amount from the price of the one you'd like to buy should it arrive in time for you. How does that sound?”

“How about twenty two dollars and you show me the best place to catch a good meal?” He offers, a crooked, awkward smile dancing across his features. It’s charming. I get the impression that he doesn’t get much reason to smile. “I’m like to scare all the rabbits away with my step. It’d be nice to have someone lighter on their feet t’help me track.”

After  a moment of consideration, I nod. “Sure. I at least want a name from you before I walk out into the wilderness though. I’m Violet. Violet Reid.”

I worry the plush of my lower lip, and his eyes follow the movement briefly before he clears his throat and averts his gaze. He seems reluctant, looking  _ anywhere _ but at me as he confesses like a cardinal sin; “Arthur Morgan.”

“Well, Mister Morgan, how about you and me meet at dawn, and I’ll show you some of the best places to hunt west of Saint Denis.”

Arthur nods, donning his hat once more. I can’t help but think it adds to the roguish charm. “Sure thing, Miss Reid. Thank you ever so much. I’ll come by at dawn. I’ll let you get back to it then.”

I grin as the door swings shut behind him. Finally, a little goddamn excitement.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a hint of warm orange glow to the east and a slight chill to the air when I wake in the morning, but the world is still mostly shrouded in darkness. I listen for a moment to the quiet morning song of birds waking for their own day while I luxuriate in my soft, warm blankets for just a fraction longer before I brave the crisp autumn air.

Eventually I roll out of bed, stretching like a cat until I feel a relieving  _ crack _ of stiff joints loosening, and dress. I slip into a dark green button-up shirt, making sure that I leave at least two of the buttons undone for the sake of comfort; with a chest like mine it makes it difficult to button shirts all the way, so I suffer with the deep dip of cleavage I’m saddled with. The pants I tug on fit my form  _ perfectly _ , though I only truly wear them for the sake of flexibility (after all, the deer I’m hunting likely don’t care what I’m wearing). It strikes me briefly that my clothes might shock a few men should they see me, but I quickly dismiss it. These are my hunting clothes; they’re the most practical and comfortable items I own for the task. After all, I can hardly hunt a deer properly in a bustle and corset.

While it doesn’t take me too long to get ready, I find that Arthur Morgan is already sat outside in the dim morning light waiting for me when I reach the ground floor. Were it not for the sharp, quick strokes of the pencil in his hand, I might have even thought him asleep, dozing on the porch until I arrive. His black hat is pulled down over his face, blocking out much of the world beyond the journal he holds, but I still see a tense look on his face as he works. The rest of him is almost still, from the duster jacket he has tugged around him, pulled close to keep him warm and shielded from the morning chill to the unmoving expression he wears. As I approach, I notice that his boots are tapping restlessly against the ground. 

“Morning, Mister Morgan,” I chirp, hoping that I don’t interrupt him at a terribly inopportune time. For a moment he doesn’t seem to register me, instead continuing to write something - presumably his thoughts - in that journal of his, before snapping it shut and shoving it back into his saddlebags.

He tips his hat towards me in greeting. The hard lines of his face are a little clearer in the dawn light filtering through the gaps between houses, and I can’t help but notice a shadow of a permanent frown ghosting over his features. There are laughter lines, of course, but he seems to have fallen on harder times since the last time they were made use of; everything about him seems wound tighter than a coiled spring, as though he’s expecting a shoot-out at any minute. Briefly, I wonder whether I should be more concerned than I am in his company, but when I notice storm blue eyes trailing over my figure, lingering ever so slightly on my curves, most of my coherent thoughts slip away into ones I can make neither head nor tail of. I can’t quite decipher his expression. A part of my heart breaks with the thought that perhaps he was once a more open man and I ponder what could have happened to him that encouraged him to bolt down those feelings… but I swallow the idea down, all too aware that I’m getting carried away and ahead of myself. Perhaps the blow to the head I took has rattled my brain loose.

“My mare is stabled nearby. I’ll need to collect her before we leave,” I find myself telling him. Arthur walks me to the stables in a somewhat awkward silence. I want to ask him so many questions - primarily those of where he came from, what he does for a living, and why he’s so uncertain whether he’ll be staying in town - but my tongue has turned to lead in my mouth. Arthur, it seems, is similarly quiet. I see him open his mouth as though to speak to me only to close it again without uttering a word Perhaps it’s the hour of day that that makes us so hesitant to speak, I wonder to myself. The rest of the world is still only rubbing the sleep from its eyes while we slip unnoticed into the stables for me to tack up my piebald mare. I’ve never been a great morning person; of course, I’m happy enough to wake before dawn, but don’t expect kindness until my second coffee of the day.

I saddle her with a quick, practiced ease, even though the girth strap has always been a little awkward on her (I’m convinced the buckles are breaking), and mount. “We’ll head northeast a little. There’s a nice plain up there I like to go when I’m shooting; plenty of small and large game. There’s a herd of whitetail deer up there you could probably hunt if you’ve got a bigger weapon than the varmint rifle”

“Sure,” he confirms, gravelly voice curling around my insides again. I try to ignore it. “I really appreciate you doing this for me, Miss Reid.”

It takes a lot of self control not to quip about how I appreciate the money he’s giving me for  _ doing this _ , and instead offer a warm smile. “Please, call me Violet, or Vi. I never did much like being called  _ Miss Reid _ , and it’s too formal for hunting partners. Don’t you think, Mister Morgan?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him nod, but it’s hard to tell between the rhythm of our trot and being a pace or two in front of him. “Of course, Violet. I ain’t much a fan of being called Mister Morgan either, so that’s just fine. Call me Arthur.”

“So, Arthur, what brings you up this way? I can’t see you being the type to settle in such a dull old town for too long; hell, even  _ I  _ think things move slow as molasses out here and I’ve barely ventured west of Strawberry… You seem like a much more learned man than me. Like you’ve seen more of the world. Surely you can’t think to stay in this hole for too long?” I ask.

The roan gelding Arthur rides snorts, shakes his head, and picks up the pace to match that of my mare. “Why, are you wanting rid of me already, Miss Violet?”

“No.” I say, perhaps a little too quickly if the twitch of Arthur’s lips are any indication. He doesn’t  _ quite _ smile (perhaps there’s something stopping him, like a wire in his jaw?) but I still feel the flush of rosy embarrassment prickling at my cheeks from my own enthusiasm. “I merely mean to ask, Mister Morgan - Arthur - what brings you here? We’re not exactly a big town, and  _ Hell _ , if my da hadn’t insisted on me staying I’d likely be on the next train to Saint Denis.”

“You want to move to the big city?”

I shrug; “Naw, not really. I just want a little  _ excitement _ , you see. All my life I’ve either been cooped up inside that damned store or a few miles this direction hunting rabbits for a good stew. It’s a nice enough place, I suppose, but I just want something a little more exciting than shooting the rats out of Mister Lawson’s basement every six weeks, you see? Saint Denis could be a whole new start for me. I could be anything I like, I… I just ain’t got the kind of money I need to start a new life.”

There are things I don’t mention; like that my father and I rarely speak outside the store now, since I expressed just how badly I wanted to get away. My father doesn’t seem to approve of me leaving Valentine, regardless of how fruitful it could be elsewhere in the world, and he’s made it all too clear that I won’t have a penny to return home to should I choose to leave his side. I don’t mention that my father thinks I’m too much like my mother, with her headstrong stubbornness and brain too big for my own good, so it’s up to him to make sure I don’t do anything too stupid.

Silence falls between us again, and I know that even with all I’ve left out, I’ve said too much - shared a little too much of my life with this stranger - but I try to take comfort knowing that he’ll likely shoot some game, give me back my gun, and scatter to the wind. Somehow, it only serves to make me feel worse.

“A new life…” He muses after a while. “You know, excitement ain’t all it seems on the outside, but I could…”

“You could  _ what _ , Mister Morgan?”

“No. Forget I spoke. Nothing at all; forget I opened my damned mouth,” he growls, more to himself than to me. Those lines on his face seem to have deepened some, perhaps in thought, or in irritation that he had been foolish enough to open his mouth in the first place. I don’t suppose it matters why; a spark of curiosity has been lit all the same. He clears his throat with a deep cough. “Nothing at all. Besides, I thought I told you to call me Arthur?”

Vaguely I recite an old saying about  _ curiosity  _ and  _ cats _ but dismiss it all the same; I want to know what he was going to say. He’d encouraged me to speak about my life here, about the gunstore and about how I wanted to move away - he’d even started to give me a suggestion, or an  _ offer _ \- before something had made him stop, so while I manage to keep my lips sealed on the matter for for a little longer, I have absolutely no intention of letting the matter slide. Again, I find myself wondering what exactly it might be that this man  _ does _ for him to be able to offer anything at all to help me. I watch him for a moment, letting my mare trot down the path she knows all too well without my eye to steer her.

We don’t speak again too much while we ride, instead falling back into that somewhat awkward silence we’d walked in to the stables earlier this morning. I don’t particularly mind this time though; it gives me a chance to think over what Arthur had  _ started _ to say to me. If he truly offered me a way out, would I even take it? My father had once told me that it was for the best if I stayed in town rather than going out there and making a fool of myself. After all, what could a wee thing like me really accomplish?

Eventually, I tug at the reins, easing my mare back down into a walk as I guide her into the shade of a tree I can tie her to. In one quick, fluid movement, I dismount. “This should do. We should go on foot from here, so tie your horse to one of these trees and we can get going.”

Arthur mutters something of an affirmation before following my lead. Now that we’re no longer trying to fill the silence with uncomfortable small talk, I feel a little more at ease. It’s relaxing, knowing that there’s no more obligation to speak to one another despite him paying me to be his guide (which I’m not entirely convinced he needed, regardless). I can brew my thoughts without the worry of interruption.

Arthur, at some point, decides that instead of using the varmint rifle he’s loaning from me, we should focus on the deer I had mentioned earlier. Of course, under the condition that I’ll still be getting paid, I can’t seem to find flaw in it, so I help him track – which mostly means that he tracks the deer and I follow him quietly along. He’s an adept hunter, I find. While I’m a good shot, I’ve never quite been able to master tracking; I’m good enough to catch a meal, of course, but this man seems to move twice as fast as I do on a good day. It’s impressive.

We grab two or three rabbits along our path, either snaring them or shooting them as we go and tying them to our belts with a length of rope, but it takes at least an hour for us to finally come across the herd I’d mentioned. Three does and a buck. Arthur takes the bow from his back slowly, nocking an arrow as he does so.

I watch him in fascinated silence. The way he draws the string back to his cheek, almost kissing the feathered tip as he lined his shot. That pensive expression of his softens ever so slightly as he relaxes into the aim. Gentle blue eyes flicker between the deer when he makes a quick decision on which of the deer to shoot for, and my own jade gaze lingers on the way his mouth curves into an almost-smile when the deer raise their heads at the creak of a bow being drawn.

The arrow flies with a whistle and a  _ thunk  _ and screaming whine tells me that Mister Morgan’s aim was true. It’s been downed. launches to his feet and stalks closer to the struggling deer. My heart almost shatters when I see the doe writhing on the ground in agony, its breath coming out in quick, shallow pants, but Arthur doesn’t seem bothered by it. Dropping to his knees and taking out his hunting knife, Morgan mutters out an apology to the deer. He mumbles how  _ it’ll all be over soon, darlin’ _ , then plunges the knife deep into the doe’s chest and gives a sharp twist. The doe gives one final jerk and goes still.

“You’ve quite the eye with that bow.” I comment, watching as he heaves the doe up and over his shoulder. The muscles in his back and shoulders flex with the motion. My eyes follow. “You must have a fair few mouths to feed if you’ll be needing all this meat. Shall we be heading back or will you want another deer?”

“I reckon another of those whitetails would do just fine. We’ve got a lot of people back at camp and our cook never stops complaining about needing more to put in the stews,” he grumbles.

So we keep hunting until both of our horses have a deer slung over the back. By the time we’re finished, the sun is high and my stomach is growling. I hadn’t had the chance to grab anything to eat before I’d met him this morning – after all, I’d assumed we would be finished before ten. When I ask Arthur for the time he fumbles for his pocket watch, as though he’d forgotten he even had one, and informs me that it’s almost twelve o’clock.

That pregnant silence has returned while we walk our horses back, until Arthur clears his throat and adjusts his seat. I try not to let my eyes follow the movement he makes in his saddle. “Miss Reid, you seem t’be a good enough hunter. You know your way around a gun and you’re a competent rider. I… what I’m trying to ask you, is – well, my camp, you see, there are a few of us there. We don’t tend to stick in the same place all too long. It seems the kind of thing you’re looking for, but if you’ll come back to camp with me here, help me take the deer back to camp, have a look around, talk to some folk, see what you think… but I want to be straight with you, Miss Reid, we ain’t good people.”

“What do you mean by that?” Worry curls in the pit of my stomach at the statement, and I wonder just what kind of man I’m speaking to.

He stares ahead, avoiding looking at me. “I’ve done a lot of things I ain’t proud of, Miss Reid. I’ve stolen and I’ve hurt people. Hell, I’ve  _ killed _ people. Most of us at camp have. I know that ain’t exactly what you’ll be wanting to hear, but it’s the truth. We’re outlaws, you see, but I swear that I’ve never stolen from a man who didn’t deserve to have those items relieved of his possession.”

I don’t speak.

He rubs his hand over the dark shadow of stubble over his jaw. “The people we steal from are bad men who make their fortune from hurting good folk. We take their cash, stow it for ourselves, and we’ll one day move ourselves somewhere nice and free where we can live without men like those bleeding the damn life out of us… We never claim to be good people, Violet, but we’re free, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm also writing an original fiction, so if you like my writing check out my tumblr. Same name as AO3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

Free. It’s a word that I’ve dreamed of for a long, long time. As for most women, the whole of my life has been dictated to me by my father; he told me when I was being smart, when I was being stupid, he told me what goals I should have. It never really stopped me from trying to escape the mind-numbing dullness of Valentine, but knowing that I would be abandoning everything I had known made things more difficult.

My da, of course, had never made it particularly easy for me to leave. He’s always been quick to remind me of how I _owe_ him everything I am, how I would never survive in the world alone, how I simply _can’t do this to him_. Even when I had gathered the courage when I was twenty one to pack a case and go west, I’d only managed to get so far as Strawberry before my father had sent out a bounty hunter to collect me and take me home… and now this man was offering me an escape on a silver platter.

But there was a catch.

Accepting his offer would not only mean leaving my father, and everything I’ve ever known, but would also entail willingly becoming an outlaw. I would be leaving my home behind to join a gang of folk I’ve never met and who were _known killers_ . Sure, Arthur seems nice enough, but I can’t exactly make a judgement based wholly on a man I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours. Even _I’m_ not so naïve as to think that would be wise.

“This… gang… of yours. You’re none too far from Valentine?” I ask.

He straightens a little, as though he hadn’t truly expected me to consider his offer, and gives me a look I can’t quite decipher but makes me smile regardless. “That’s right. You can come back with me today and you can meet them. We need to drop off these deer carcasses for Pearson anyway; he’ll make some stew and you can meet the rest of the gang while you wait for it. I’d say you’ve earned a bowl, what with having killed one of them yourself, and forgive me for saying so but I think you’d fit right in with us.”

In the end, I agree - albeit reluctantly - to accompany him back to his camp, which he tells me rests a few miles outside of Valentine at Horseshoe Overlook. For the first time since I’ve met him, he seems _alive_ and talkative; telling me stories of the different people I’ll meet when we arrive. Arthur does into great detail about several members of the camp, explaining in no words short of contradiction that they’re all _good folk_ in their own ways. At first, it makes little sense to me how he could describe them simultaneously at both bad people and good folk until I realise that throughout all of the stories he tells me, he seems to be the one committing most of the acts he sees as bad. Dutch is a fatherly figure who loves his people. Tilly is gentle and kind. Sean is just a kid with a sense of humour… Arthur? Arthur is a bad man.

At least, he seems to think so.

Oddly, knowing that Arthur does not consider himself a _good_ man makes me feel a little more at ease around him. Had he committed the acts he claims and not expressed any sort of remorse for what he’s done, I might have run for the hills, but understanding that what he does is wrong and then trying his hardest not to _be_ that bad person? I could hardly fault him for something so noble

“ _Who goes there?_ ” A man bellows from the treeline , and I see what looks to be an elderly man pointing a rifle in our direction, but between his beard and the wide brim of his hat, I can see little of his face aside from the bulbous red nose poking out.

Arthur raises a hand as he trots closer; “It’s Arthur, you damned old fool. Go back to sleep, Uncle.”

There’s a grumble from the old man - Uncle - and Arthur continues to lead me through into the camp. I can feel the old man’s eyes on me the whole way and my nerves start to prickle with unease. The treeline gives out to a large clearing bustling with activity. Tents have been erected and caravans parked up. A dozen horses graze idly where Arthur draws his horse to a stop and dismounts, so I follow suit.

More sets of eyes start to fix on me, the small of my back tingling with the sensation of so many people watching me. I start to think that maybe walking into this camp full of strange outlaws is a _bad idea_ …

Until I hear a child’s hiccupping laughter and a boy comes barrelling around the corner of one of the tents, sprinting as fast as he can straight up to Arthur and waving two of the smallest fish I’ve ever seen at him, cheering; “Look! Look how many fishes I caught!”

Arthur, for all that talk he’d just given me about how he isn’t a good man, kneels down in front of the kid and gives him a smile that all but makes my heart stutter. There’s a rumbling laughter coming from deep in his chest that could turn a woman to butter as he takes the fish from the child before him and examines them. “An you caught these all by yourself, Jack? That’s mighty impressive! Have you shown your ma all this hard work?”

Jack shakes his head. “No. I didn’t wanna show her in case they wasn’t all that good. When you took me fishing you brought back such a big fish. Is these too small?”

“These? Naw, I think they’ll do just fine. I think you should run along and show her what you caught. Go on now, Jack. I got to get these to Pearson and show this nice lady around,” he says, giving the tiny fish back to the still beaming child. I’m so enraptured by the scene unfolding before me that I’m a little startled when I find it’s over and Arthur is on his feet once more, staring at me with amusement dancing in his expression. There’s still a breath of a smile kissing his features, as though despite all his work to appear rough and hardened, he can’t help the softness he shows around the child.

“I didn’t realise you had a son, or a wife,” I say, a little surprised. He hadn’t struck me as a loving, fatherly type, but he’d been so kind to the boy and spoken warmly of his mother. I smile through the disappointment I find sinking like a stone in my stomach; “I’d love to meet her. Your boy is a real sweetie.”

Arthur’s smile falters completely, the expression slipping away into something darker. Haunted, almost. I hadn’t intended my words to come as such a blow, but I regret them immediately. He sucks in a breath before replying; “Once upon a time, Miss Reid, but not now. That boy there is John Marston’s son, and the mother is Abigail Marston. He’s a good kid; I took him fishing a few days ago, he said it was boring… but he’s tryin’ so hard to pull his weight in camp he must’ve gone with someone else this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t mean to bring up-”

He waves me away with a gruff _I’m fine_ , despite the deep crease of his brow telling me otherwise. Were we closer, I might have pursued it and ensured I hadn’t upset him. Instead, I settle for a sympathetic smile and try to change the topic of conversation.

“So, we need to get these deer to that Pearson lad, right?” I confirm, hauling one of our kills from the back of my horse. Arthur slips one over just his left shoulder, while I must grunt with effort to keep my smaller doe over both of mine. He jerks his head in the direction we should be moving and I follow him as quickly as I can, already starting to feel a trickle of cold, dead doe blood trickling down the back of my neck and through my shirt.

Pearson, I discover, is a barrel bellied, balding man with a moustache to rival some of the best. He has a pallid complexion, with a pink nose and rosy hue to his cheeks. His huge eyebrows are pulled tight as he scrutinises me. “Morgan. Who’ve you got here? Doesn’t Dutch have a rule about not bringing whores back to camp?”

“Miss Reid here is here to see if she can join us,” Arthur explains. He dumps the deer on the table and shrugs his shoulders free of the weight. I copy him, and watch as Mister Morgan leans a little closer to Pearson, dropping his voice a fraction. “Even if she were a whore, ain’t none of your damn business. Show some respect.”

He doesn’t bother apologising, but he does lower his head and get to work on the deer. Arthur mutters something about fish to him before gently taking my arm and guiding me away. I frown. “Mister Morgan, you didn’t have to do that. I appreciate it though; it was kind of you.”

“Don’t think of it, Miss Reid. He needs to learn when to keep his damned mouth shut, that one,” Morgan tells me. I don’t know when, or why, we slipped into referring to each other by our surnames again, but I don’t try to correct him. It seems strange to call him Arthur in camp, especially when Pearson had simply called him _Morgan_.

“So, now what?”

“Well, I need to go fishing - we can hardly feed the whole camp off what young Jack there caught - but you should stay here. Talk to folk. See what they think of it here, and see whether you’d like to stay.”  

 

*  


 

Arthur introduces me to Dutch briefly before taking his leave, abandoning me in a camp full of strangers and sat in front of a gang leader with more money on his head than I’ll likely ever see in my whole life.

“So, Miss Reid, is it?” Dutch starts, drawling the words as though it’s the most boring question in the world. For all I know, it _is_ ; after all, Dutch van der Linde has seen a lot in his days. “Why exactly did Arthur bring you to us? What do you think you could bring to the camp?”

I hesitate for a moment, watching Dutch as he examines me, eyes flickering over me - not the way Arthur’s had, no, this was more businesslike. He was assessing a threat. I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Well, Mister van der Linde; I’m a mean shot, and I’m a decent enough hunter. I ran the gunstore in Valentine alongside my da for a long time, so I know how those sort of places work. I’m not afraid to pull my weight.”

“And what, exactly, makes you want to leave your pretty little life in Valentine to join a gang of the most wanted outlaws in the West?”

“My da. Well… he’s a good man, really. I think so. He just don’t know what he’s doing with me, is all. I’m trapped working in a goddamn gunstore in a town where the most exciting thing that happens is the rats in the saloon basement. I’ve asked to get away an’ he won’t let me. I’ve tried to run but he’s sent men after me. I need to breathe.”

Dutch quirks a brow. “So, you’re looking for excitement?”

“I’m looking for anything,” I confess, and chew the plush of my lower lip. “I’m looking for a way out. I’m better with a gun than any man in that town, I’m a damned good rider, and I know a hard day’s work. I don’t shirk my duties, Mister van der Linde, even if I don’t like them.”

Silence falls between us as the camp’s leader seems to consider my words. I’m not certain whether there’s a tell on that stony face, but if there is, I don’t spot it. Poker had never been a game I’d excelled at. He removes his hat and runs a hand through his slick black hair before exhaling one long, exasperated breath. “Your father sounds like he’s got your best interests at heart, Miss Reid. I think it would be wise of you-”

“I don’t want wisdom, Mister van der Linde. I want freedom. Isn’t that what this whole world is all about? Freedom? Not being cooped up in some dusty old store counting shotgun shells until the day I die.”

“Freedom,” He repeats, a curve of a smile on his lips, “Alright, Miss Reid. You can stay with us. You’ll need a tent, but until you’re able to get to one, you can have Arthur’s. He’s the one who brought you back here. It’s his responsibility to keep you looked after.”

“With all due respect, Sir; I can look after myself.”

Dutch flashes me a wicked smile that makes me wonder whether I was making the right choice, and the cold cut of his tone makes my skin prickle with goosflesh. “We’ll see, Miss Reid.”


	4. Chapter 4

Just like that, I become a part of Dutch van der Linde’s infamous gang of outlaws. Dutch himself seems kind enough and most definitely the parent Arthur had described him as, though he seems quite suspicious of me. I suppose I would be too. After all, to him I’m nothing more than some strange woman who turned up to his camp and demanded to become a part of the most notorious gang of outlaws west of Saint Denis. Even from my perspective, I can understand how  _ unusual _ such a situation is. Still, he puts a hand between my shoulderblades, gives me a carefully practiced smile, and guides me out of his tent towards the campfire.

“This here is Miss Violet Reid. She’ll be staying with us for a time.” While his voice is not  _ unkind _ , it does lack a certain warmth. I find myself shifting in discomfort as several sets of eyes land on me. “Introduce yourselves; I’ve got some more work to be doing. I’d be grateful if Tilly and Abigail would be so kind to show Miss Reid here around.”

With those words, Dutch retreats back to his tent, and I’m left with a group of people who are, for all the world, looking at me like I have the plague. There are three men and two women, all of whom stare at me for the longest time, before one of the women - a beautiful young black woman - gets to her feet, brushes the front of her dress down, and smiles at me.

“Hey, I’m Tilly Jackson. Nice to meet you, Miss Reid. It’ll be nice to have another woman around the place, I reckon. This here is Abigail, and these three dumbstruck fools are Charles, Javier and Micah.” My eyes follow her gestures to each of the men, giving them a nod in turn. When she reaches Micah, however, I find myself distinctly uncomfortable. Something cold in his expression as he flashes a joyless, almost vicious smile, sends fear spider-crawling up my spine. I decide very quickly to steer clear of him.

Abigail is a little older than Tilly, I think - though it’s hard to tell - but they’re both beautiful. She takes one of my arms, and Tilly promptly takes the other, and they start to guide me around camp. “So, Miss Reid, how come you’re staying with us?”

So much for small talk, I muse to myself. There’s no  _ ain’t the weather nice?  _ Or  _ I wonder what’s for supper! _ just an immediate interrogation on why I’m staying with them. I absently run a hand through my wild tangle of ginger hair, suddenly quite self conscious of how dishevelled I must look in comparison to the two gorgeous women either side of me. “Well, me an’ Mister Morgan were hunting. He borrowed my gun, we talked, and I mentioned how I hated things as they were. He said you could always use the extra hands, and it’s a way to finally get away from my… from everything.”

They nod in unison, wry smiles kissing their beautiful features for a moment before sharing a look between them. It appears as though they’ve accepted my answer, but their expression when I had makes me wary. I clear my throat. “So, what of you two? How come you’re both with Mister van der Linde?”

Tilly stiffens slightly, her muscles tightening around my arm for a moment before relaxing again when Abigail starts talking, seeming to understand the unease. “Well, I’m married to John Marston, and Tilly here - well, it’s a long story for another time, ain’t it Tilly?”

“Yeah, a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you one night over a bottle of good whiskey,” Tilly agrees, shooting a thankful smile to her friend, “but right now we’re meant to be showing you around the camp, aren’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about this being so short! I'm working on a much, much longer chapter next <3


	5. Chapter 5

Tilly and Abigail show me the ropes of what’s expected of us here at camp, and I find that the romantic fantasy I’d imagined for myself in this camp seems a far cry from what I’ll be living. It seems as though the women are expected to carry out the  _ traditional _ feminine duties, like the cleaning and the laundry and caring for Abigail’s son. I argue that this isn’t what I’ve come here to do, but I’m just told that it’s our side of the deal. 

“I’ll bet I can shoot better than half of the menfolk in this camp, but because I’m a woman, I’m stuck on laundry duty?” I grouse, my lips tightening into a thin line, “I’m certain I could teach some of the menfolk how to wash a shirt.”

They both grin at me, clearly amused by my irritation. Abigail pats at my hand. “You’ll fit right in here, Miss Reid. The men tend to the huntin’ and fishin’ and they like to find jobs to do. We’re mostly left here at camp to care for Jack and do the chores here. We all got to pull our weight here, even if it sometimes means doing things we ain’t all too happy with.”

“I’ll be damned if I leave one prison only to be trapped in another, Miss Abigail, Miss Tilly. I’m sorry - I don’t mean to make your work seem unimportant. Your jobs are o’course vital, but I came here to escape this and make use of my skills, an’ washing Mister Morgan’s bloody britches ain’t one of them.”

“Well, if you feel that strongly, I’ll put a word in, Miss Violet.” His voice is like shattered glass wrapped in swathes of silk. I press my knees together and suck in a breath. My cheeks flush a little and I have to take a second to compose myself before turning to smile at Arthur.

“Mister Morgan. Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” I turn to face him with a sweet smile, and again I’m certain I see him falter a little at my expression, “Though, I think I’m going to have to put a  _ bell _ on you. You’re making quite a habit out of sneaking up on me.”

“I… My apologies, ma’am.”

I swear I could hear Tilly and Abigail concealing laughter behind me because of the poor man floundering for a response, but I try not to let my own amusement show beyond the light twitch of my lips. Arthur clears his throat and removes his hat, finding a particularly interesting speck of dirt on the rim for him to clean. 

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll walk with you to see Mister van der Linde, if that’s alright?” I ask. 

He nods and replaces his hat on his head. “Of course, Miss Reid.”

So saying, I get to my feet and smooth down my shirt, flashing Arthur a grin and a wink before turning back to the women I’d been sat with to bid them goodbye: They’re grinning at me like a pair of Cheshire cats, their eyes dancing with mirth. “Thank you, both of you, for taking the time to show me around the camp. I’m glad that I’ll have some other women around to help keep me sane. I don’t know if I could deal with a bunch of brutish men  _ all  _ of the time.”

“I’m sure you won’t mind at least  _ one _ brute,” Abigail purrs, glancing not-so-subtly towards Arthur and back to me, “But we’ll be glad to offer you some sanity. It’ll be good to have another woman around.”

He waits patiently for me to join him, and I walk with Arthur through the camp at a leisurely pace. I try to engage in light conversation with him, but find his responses to be varying degrees of grumbles and hums... he doesn’t speak much, I’ve noticed, unless he finds it entirely necessary. I wrinkle my nose; how boring.

“So, Mister Morgan. Have you discussed my arrangement with Dutch since you got back from fishing?” I ask eventually, hoping to tease something of a reply from him. He grumbles a  _ ‘No, Miss Reid’ _ as we approach Dutch’s tent.  It strikes me that we’ve come to calling each other by our surnames once more, but quickly dismiss it. “I merely ask as he told me I’d be sleeping in your tent until-”

“He what?”

_ Ah _ ,  _ so nobody told him. Great.  _ The sigh that escapes me isn’t lost on Arthur, because he watches me intently when I drag a hand down my face in exasperation.  _ Men _ . So many men strut around as though they’re God’s gift, and not one of the fools understands how to communicate with the other. This would be a  _ long _ stay.

“Yeah, your friend Dutch suggested it. Something about how you’re the one who brought me here, so I’m your responsibility.” I make a show of rolling my eyes, though Arthur’s expression doesn’t soften much. 

“I’ll speak with Dutch.” He growls, stomping off into van der Linde’s tent. 

 

By the time Arthur leaves Dutch’s tent, the whole camp has gathered around me to whisper. Some of them - like Tilly and Abigail - find the whole situation a riot. They were struggling to hold back their laughter the whole while Arthur was shouting at Dutch about how  _ “Miss Violet ain’t gonna sleep in my tent, Dutch. She’s a woman! She needs her own space!” _ , his voice carrying across the whole camp. Others don’t find the predicament amusing. Miss Grimshaw has been glaring at me for at least ten minutes, as though trying to discern what kind of trouble I must be for such a commotion. Micah - that ratty looking fella I thought looked like trouble - keeps watching me too, though his expression makes me uncomfortable for wholly different reasons.

Arthur eventually emerges, face still crunched in frustration and beet red with something akin to embarrassment, and points an accusing finger at me. “We need to talk, Miss Reid. With me.”

I glance at Abigail - who makes a face to say  _ just go with him _ \- and quickly follow him towards a tent. There aren’t many personal effects in sight - a single, wilting flower and one or two photographs - but something tells me that this is Arthur’s tent. He jabs a finger towards the cot. “This is where you’ll be sleeping. I’ll be sleeping by the campfire until you find a more permanent tent.”

“Perhaps we could take it in shifts?” I suggest, loathing the idea that the men were treating me like some delicate piece of porcelain. “I’ll sleep by the fire tonight, and you can stay there tomorrow night.”

“Miss Reid, I-”

“Don’t you  _ Miss Reid, _ me, Mister Morgan. I’m not having you give up your tent to me for no goddamn reason.” I wag a finger in his direction, taking only a  _ little _ satisfaction when I see the surprise plastered across those roguishly handsome features. “I’m no delicate flower an’ I don’t want treating like one. Understand me?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he drawls, and takes a seat on his cot. 

For all that he was the one to invite me into the fold, Arthur doesn’t seem thrilled for me to be here. I chew the plush of my lower lip, perching myself on the other end of his cot; “Mister Morgan, you seem… well, you seem as though you do not want me here. I appreciate your offer and all, but if this is something that might have you grow to resent me, I’d take my leave.”

“No,” He says immediately. There’s a small pause in which my lips twitch, threatening laughter, and Arthur clears his throat to begin again. I wonder whether he’s so utterly charming with all the women he knows. “No, Miss Reid, that ain’t my intention. I merely… Miss Reid, you’re welcome to stay in this tent, should you like. I wouldn’t be much a gentleman if I left you to sleep out there. I ain’t much a gentleman anyhow, but I’d like it much more if you had a tent. I don’t think you’re some delicate flower or whatever you said, I just-”

“You’d just like to do something nice for someone?” I finish for him, deciding it better than watching him flounder like a fish out of water for much longer. “Thank you, Arthur. That’s really kind of you.” I concede, and brush a lock of flaming hair from my face before I lean over and press my lips against his cheek. It’s a quick, chaste kiss - nothing more than a peck - but I can still see his whole body lock up at the touch. 

As I get to my feet, I wonder just how long it’s been for him since a woman was so close.


	6. Chapter 6

That first night, I’d slept in Arthur’s tent, despite my discomfort making him sleep out by the campfire. In the morning, he’d slipped out of camp to find me my own tent - looking around Valentine for the materials we needed - but returned empty handed. He hadn’t bothered to wake me before leaving, aware that going back into the town I’d just ran from might not be the best idea, so by the time I woke he’d already returned and was talking to Hosea about some bear they’d recently hunted together. The rest of that day had been uneventful, and Arthur had once more insisted that I sleep in his cot for the night.

He rises at dawn on my second full day, rousing me from my own slumber, and we go hunting again.  We don’t go far - only to the edge of the woodland around Horseshoe Overlook - and he shows me how to tie a snare to catch rabbits. 

While I’m still rubbing the grains of sleep from my eyes, Arthur is already hunting for the best possible places for us to start placing traps. I watch him as I slowly come to terms with the fact that I’m awake and the sky is still a dark, wondering why he seems to have a permanent frown etched onto his features. He frowns down at a patch of particularly long grass before motioning me over. 

Arthur is a surprisingly patient teacher, even though my fingers fumble the wire a few times while I attempt to set up a snare. I’m still half asleep, and starting to get frustrated when I feel Arthur edge closer.

“Look, you need to tie a loop at the end of here - no, like this-” Arthur leans over me, his fingers dancing with mine as I try and fail to tie a loop in the wire we’re using for the snare. He smells like leather, gun oil, horses, and something else that’s difficult to place but strikes me as distinctly  _ him _ . For the first hour I’d tried to sleep - tossing and turning on the small cot - I’d found myself far too distracted by the hazy, lingering scent of Arthur Morgan on the sheets 

I stifle a yawn, hoping he doesn’t see, but steely eyes cut across to meet my gaze. I think he must notice how close to my face he is - barely a breath apart - and he retreats, adjusting his hat and clearing his throat and looking  _ anywhere _ but at me. I smile lazily at him; “I don’t  _ bite _ , Mister Morgan.”

Again I see that charming, ever-so-handsome expression he wears when I say something he doesn’t quite seem to expect. Has this man never flirted before? Surely someone so handsome must have been with a woman before? I bite my tongue to keep me from asking questions on the matter, and sigh, letting the topic slip away. “I just  _ yawned _ , you don’t have to leap away from me like I’m going to eat you whole.”

A breath of laughter escapes him at my comment, and something in my chest constricts - tightening and squeezing around my heart - at the noise. I put it down to having slept in his cot last night; it’s left me all muddled. Sure, Arthur is handsome, and he smells good, and he’s got a few charming habits, but I needn’t go pining after him like a damn teenager. Arthur removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair; I watch the movement intently.

“You say you wouldn’t eat me whole, but I’ve seen how much stew you take at meals, Miss Reid.” He gives me a lopsided smile. I can see how infinitely glad he is that I’ve steered the conversation in another direction, but he still clears his throat and lowers his tone to speak to me next; “Did y’not sleep well last night, Miss Reid? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem at all. It’s just a little early, is all.” I assure him, and nod back to the snare he’d been showing me how to make. “Now, are you going to show me how to do this, or not?”

*

It must be around ten by the time we start to head back. I’ve slowly coaxed him into talking to me more and more through the morning, like easing a frightened dog out of a corner. He still seems a little reluctant to tell me certain things about himself - about his life - but I simply smile and tell him that perhaps it’s a story for another time. 

“So, I couldn’t help but overhear you talking to Hosea about a bear you’d hunted a few days before you met me. Seems like it was a real monster you fought. There a story to this?” I ask, nudging him with my shoulder. 

Arthur’s lips quirk up at the corners and I promise myself that I’ll see that man smile if it’s the last goddamn thing I do. If those little whispers of happiness are so handsome, I can only imagine how charming he’d be if I could coax a real smile out of him. 

“Well, Hosea took me hunting this big brute of a bear. Said he was a thousand pounds or something,” he tells me, glancing across as though to tell me it certainly  _ wasn’t _ a thousand-pound bear, “an’ when we got there, we started tracking it. I mean, it was a big bear - biggest I’ve ever seen - but Hosea near pissed himself when he saw the thing.”

“Really?”

For a second, I think he might have forgotten who he was speaking to, and all of a sudden there’s that adorable (though I’d never use the word out loud to describe him) reluctance that told me he was so unused to dealing with women. “I mean, he near wet hi-”

“Fuck off, Morgan. Get on with the damn story, will you? Ain’t a word you could use that me or any other woman back at camp won’t have heard at one time or another.”

He nods, “Well, anyway. This bear comes barreling out of the trees like a runaway train. Ugly fucker, it was - scarred to Hell - and angry. I’ve never seen an animal that looked  _ evil _ , but the look this thing had in its eyes was downright demonic, Miss Reid… so Hosea is cowering behind this rock while I try to shoot this thing down. I hit it a few times but all I did was spook it.”

We’re approaching camp now and I can see the bustle of movement ahead. A part of me is pleased; when in camp, I feel secure, knowing that my father can’t come to claim me back. Mostly, though, I’m disappointed. Arthur doesn’t seem to speak to me quite so much at camp, either that’s because he’s being ordered around by people left, right, and centre, or because he simply doesn’t want to seem too close to me.

“So I tell Hosea to head back to camp, and I go hunting the thing myself,” he continues, oblivious to the fact we’re almost there, “I can’t tell you how many bullets I emptied into the thing before it finally went down, but at least I got a new rug out of it. I’ll likely be selling it-”

“Can I see it?” I ask, somewhat surprised he’d kept it for so long without seeking a buyer. “I want to see the bear Hosea was so frightened of.”

“Sure. The bear must have been pretty damn old by the time I got to him, but I think the pelt is still in decent shape enough to make a profit from it. I’ll go get it; it’s in the back of one of the wagons,” he tells me, leading the way through camp to the wagon his tent is closest to.

I’m near giddy with joy that he’s talking to me so freely, that I’ve managed to wiggle my way through the cracks of that wall he’s erected between himself and the rest of the world, when he takes off his hat and absently hands it to me so both of his hands are free to unroll the bearskin. 

As he unrolls it, I lean closer to get a better look at each scar and scratch across the old hide. It’s a thing of beauty, truly - with so many stories to tell and battles to recall - but as I’m about to articulate how incredible this kill is, and congratulate him, and to thank him for showing me the hide.... We’re interrupted. “Arthur! I need a word.” 

_ Great _ .

Miss Grimshaw is stalking towards us with a steely determination. I can’t help but roll my eyes. The woman has had it out for me from the moment I stepped foot in camp, and I’m almost convinced that she’s trying to steer Arthur away from me, like I’m some succubus desperate to leech the very life out of him. 

I place my hand over Arthur’s as he places the bearskin back inside the wagon - our discussion cut short - and he freezes momentarily. “Thanks, Arthur. I enjoyed speaking with you today.”

With those words, I walk away, making sure to give Miss Grimshaw a smile and a wink as I do. I’m only barely out of her sight before I hear her hiss to Arthur, “Goddamnit Arthur Morgan, your taste in women is  _ awful _ . You need to stay away from that girl; I’m telling you. She’s no good, and she’s no good for you. Listen to me, before she breaks your heart just like that  _ Mary _ woman did.”


	7. Chapter 7

The name has been swirling around my mind since hearing it -  _ Mary _ \- but I don’t dare ask anyone at camp who Miss Grimshaw might be referring to. I busy myself while I wait for Arthur to finish speaking with Miss Grimshaw, hauling a square bale of hay across to where the horses feed. 

The hay is heavier than I expected it to be, tightly packed and strung together with thick pink string, but I hold it between both hands and waddle over to the horses eventually. It might have taken Arthur a few minutes at most, but I feel as though it takes me at least ten, and it’s confirmed when I see Arthur jotting something in his journal and slumped back in his - or my? Our (my cheeks heat at the idea) - cot. 

He doesn’t seem to hear me as I approach the tent, though I make little effort to conceal my steps. Arthur is far too occupied with his journal, his head bowed and brows tugged together, so much so that I’m able to peer over his shoulder into that little leatherbound book. He writes in lovely, looping swirls that seem more like art than actual lettering, but it’s the drawing that catches my eye. Half of the page is decorated with a detailed pencil sketch of a stag standing out against a plain background, the grass kissing its hooves and sun blazing between its thick, curved antlers. Its head is reared, staring at the viewer with ancient, knowing eyes. It’s incredible.

“You’re a beautiful artist, Arthur,” I tell him, wholly forgetting that he doesn’t know I’m there.

He jolts to attention, snapping his journal shut and jumping away from me like I’ve burned him. I raise my hands in surrender as he glares across at me, shoving the journal back into his jacket pocket. “Jesus, Violet Reid, ain’t no-one told you it’s damn rude to read over someone’s shoulder?”

“No, they haven’t,” I confess in a small voice - I hadn’t been reading what he was writing, only watching the soft strokes of his hand as he’d written it - and chew the plush of my lower lip. “I can’t read, I swear it. I was just looking at the pictures. Your writing looks pretty - it’s so lovely - but I don’t know what it says.”

“What you mean, you can’t read?” He asked, almost disbelieving, though I see him starting to relax. “How can you run a store like that without reading the things people want?”

“I mostly just look at the pictures they point to and remember what they want. I know what most guns  _ look _ like so it ain’t hard for me to guess what they’re after.” It’s not something I’m proud of, though I’m well aware that it’s not entirely uncommon for a woman not to be able to read. My father had taught me numbers - I could tell you how much anything cost, but I couldn’t read it out of a book to you - because he needed someone to run the gunstore. Reading hadn’t been important. “My da always told me that no good ever came from reading. That it’d give me some stupid ideas an’ I’d get myself killed. Nobody ever offered to teach me.”

Arthur’s features are screwed up into a frown again, and I’m worried that I’ve irked the man before I hear him grumble, “Your  _ da  _ ain’t too good a man, if y’ask me. It’s a father’s job to give his kids all they need t’survive. Your pa did a piss poor job, Miss Violet. No offence.”

“None taken, Mister Morgan.”

He rubs at the dark stubble across his jaw, considering something for a moment while he looks at me. It’s not a judgemental look, but I still find myself squirming under his gaze. After some time, I clear my throat, well aware of the rosy hue to my cheeks, and give Arthur a nervous hint of a smile that seems to snap him out of his reverie. 

“Well, Miss Reid, it seems we got some work to do,” he tells me, and I see that heart-stopping ghost of a smile again, “sit down. I can show you your letters, if you should like.”

That small smile breaks like dawn into a broad, excited grin and I abandon my nerves. I fling myself at Arthur, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing for a second before releasing him and pressing a hard kiss against his cheek. He blinks in surprise and removes his hat, running a hand through that mess of hair and averting his gaze. It makes me want to kiss him again. I try not to think about the tingling of my lips from the prickle of his stubble, but my fingers still hover over my mouth for a second, like I’m trying to savour the feeling. Despite myself, I’ve turned into a shy, romantically inept teenager, and all I can do is clear my throat and take a seat on the cot.

Arthur takes a seat beside me, this time so close our shoulders brush, and he takes out his journal again. He flips to a blank page and starts to write those lovely, swirling letters again. I recognise some of them, but others are wholly alien to me. I lean closer to watch his hand move as he recites the symbol he’s drawn; “There are two kinds of letters, you see, there’s this -” he points to a small, fat, round looking symbol, “-and then there are capital letters.”

“Why?”

He glances at me as I look up - our faces are so close again - but he’s too distracted by my question to notice the way my tongue wets my lips at our proximity. “Well, the capital ones tell you where the start of a sentence is, or someone’s name. They help break up sentences along with punctuation, but we’ll get to that a lot later, alright?”

I nod.

“This is the letter A - the sharp one is the capital, and the little round thing is the common letter,” he continues, underlining them as he goes. Arthur keeps going, writing down the letters, capital then common, and telling me what it is. My fingers follow his hands down the page. 

I think we must sit there for a while, because when Arthur reaches the letter Z, and tells me that’s every letter in the alphabet, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much and my spine cracks when I straighten up. There’s the sound of paper tearing, and Arthur has ripped out two pages from his journal for me to take; one with the letters on, and one plain sheet. 

“Practice them today, and we can go over it again either tonight or tomorrow, if you should like?” He says, handing me the sheets of paper and getting to his feet. He looks a little tired, but there’s something of quiet joy in his expression, I think, when he looks at how happy he’s made me.

“Sure thing, Mister Morgan,” I say, glancing down at the paper and running my fingers over the beautiful lettering he’s given me, “and I still think you have real pretty handwriting.”

Arthur snorts out a dry laugh; “Naw, I don’t think so. You just ain’t had the chance to look at many books yet. I think you’ll find me - my writing - something of a disappointment, Miss Reid.”

“I don’t think there’s anything about you that could disappoint me, Arthur,” I say to him, for lack of better judgement. That flustered, somewhat bewildered expression brushes his features once more - as though he’s not used to being complimented, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it now that he has - and I can’t help but laugh a little, hoping to ease that bashfulness; “Mister Morgan, thank you. I’ll make sure I practice my letters, so  _ you’re _ not disappointed in  _ me _ when you see me again.”

I’m still beaming up at him when Micah runs into camp and starts screaming.


	8. Chapter 8

Micah bellows something, sprinting through the tents and pointing wildly behind him, back towards the treeline. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but I make out the word  _ O’Driscoll  _ that urges everyone else into action. They prepare themselves for a battle. The camp is suddenly alive, people scrambling for weapons and cover while the rising thunder of hoofbeats against soft earth starts to fill the air around us. 

“Arthur,” I start, grabbing him by the wrist as he joins the commotion. He meets my gaze. “I need a gun. I can help.”

He barely even looks at me as he takes one of his own guns - a silver, intricately engraved Colt pistol - and drops it into my hand. He points towards where the camp keep ammunition supplies, gives me a curt nod, and vanishes, leaving me to figure out exactly what role I’ll play here.

There must be at least twenty riders emerging from the trees now, slowing their pace to a halt by our own horses, and taking their time in examining the campsite. Where the van der Linde gang might look a little rough around the edges, they’re not quite what I imagined from an outlaw gang. The O’Driscolls, however, are. Their faces are scrunched up in hideous fury, their eyes narrowed and their lips curled up. Everything about them is unpleasant, from the grim, blood-smeared clothes to the yellowed teeth of their grim smiles. One man steps forward.

“Dutch van der Linde!” His voice is sharp and unpleasant, like nails scraping down a chalkboard, but it serves its purpose of  _ silencing  _ everyone in camp. “The Colm O’Driscoll has a  _ message _ for you, boy. You’ve got to step down, or we’ll tear this camp apart inside out, you hear?”

“Tell Colm that if he so much as steps foot in this camp I’ll have his goddamn head.” Dutch growls from somewhere beyond my line of sight. I hear Arthur snarl something to van der Linde and tighten my hold on the pistol in my hand.

A shot rings through the clearing. Birds scatter to the skies. Some of the horses rear and buck, throwing their riders. The O’Driscoll who had spoken drops like a sack of bricks. Clumps of reddish grey splatter the earth, the horses, and the riders behind where he falls. Bits of brain and shards of bone have exploded from the back of his head. I’ve never seen a man shot in the face before, but it doesn’t take a genius to realise that with that much brain on the  _ outside  _ of his skull, there ain’t much chance of him being alive enough to tell Colm O’Driscoll a damn thing. 

I vomit.

It isn’t my proudest moment, wiping the bile from the sides of my mouth, but the shock of seeing someone’s brains splattered across the clearing turned my stomach and has left me numb. The world has been thrust back into motion around me, the din of battle filling the camp as I collect myself. 

I jump when someone’s hand comes to rest on the flat of my back, rubbing up and down in reassurance, and Arthur’s voice is a soothing calm to my jittery nerves. “You’re alright, Violet.  You can do this.”

A part of me wants to melt back into his touch, to allow myself the weakness of his gentle voice, but even as I consider it I feel embarrassment flooding my cheeks. Instead of caving to that weakness, I push myself up and suck in a breath, readying myself for the onslaught. “You’re right. My da didn’t teach me how to shoot for nothin’, right?”

Arthur gives me that tiny almost smile, nods, and shifts to the opposite end of my cover. Now that he’s closer, providing me the cover I hadn’t realised I was so anxious for, my shoulders relax a little and I take aim. Two shots hit their mark. I watch in mute horror as the O’Driscolls crumple to the ground like ragdolls, my fingers trembling against the pistol. The third shot doesn’t kill anyone, but I watch as a man’s hat flies from his head, a tiny hole poking out of it. His attention snaps to me. Another shot, and he too is dead.

I keep it up, making each bullet count. Arthur and I slip into a fluid synchronicity I hadn’t been aware possible. Where I duck to reload, he shoots, and vice versa. We look up at each other in unison after every few rounds to check on each other, our gazes meeting briefly in the crossfire. 

He mouths ‘are you alright?’ at me and I flash a nervous smile and return the question. Every time I ask, he seems a little surprised I bothered, but gives me a nod in return anyway. 

“There are two left!” Someone screams over the gunfire. I don’t know who, but their call has us both popping our heads over cover and checking the location of our two remaining enemies. 

I scoot closer to Arthur and whisper, “I think there’s one to our left, behind that tree - you see him?”

“Yeah, I got him. I don’t see the other guy though,” he tells me, shooting at the man in cover,  just as I hear the click of a gun being cocked behind my head. My body is yanked back sharply, and I grab for Arthur’s shirt out of instinct. 

I’m dragged to my feet, a bruising grip on my throat stopping me from crying out. He’s taller, and far broader, than me. The way his hand envelopes my throat tells me as much, and the hot breath against the back of my head. “Mister Morgan, a pleasure to see you again. See y’found yourself a nice bird here…”

“Get your hands off her, you piece of shit.” Arthur lurches to his feet, but the barrel of the man’s gun against my temple presses in harder, reminding Arthur that if he made a wrong move, he’d splatter my brains over him like that O’Driscoll back there.

The man behind me tuts, “Now, is that any way to speak to an old friend?” 

“I don’t give a shit. You lay a hand on her and I swear-”

“You swear what, that you’ll kill me?” He snorts, “I’m gonna die here anyway, Arthur. I might as well have a little fun while I’m still kickin’...”

With those words, he squeezes my throat and leans closer. I feel his breath tickling my cheek as he takes a deep breath. I suppress the urge to shudder, and instead slam my boot down onto his toes. He jerks back, gun shooting up instead of at me, and stumbles. I spin and grab the gun from his hand, twisting his fingers until I hear a sharp  _ crunch _ , and empty the rest of his bullets into him. 

It’s only when the gun clicks three or four times that I realise that it’s empty. Arthur’s hand comes to rest over mine, his voice a low rumble as he takes the weapon from my hands and tosses it to the floor. I’m enveloped by the familiar scent of Arthur - the leather and gun oil and  _ him _ \- as he pulls me into a hug. I crumple against him, sobbing. One hand comes to smooth down my hair, stroking it and shushing me.

“You’re alright, sweetheart. You’re alright. You did so well,” he tells me. I let myself melt into his touch until I stop crying, “I’m sorry I wasn’t quick enough, Violet. I should have been watching your back. You did it though, you got him.”

I shake my head against his chest, not yet willing to tear myself away from the reassuring touch. “No. I… I should have been paying attention.”

He guides me back to his cot and lowers me into a seat before slowly peeling himself away from me. “Your first shootout?”

I nod.

“I… want to tell you it gets easier,” he says, though I see in his eyes that the truth is going to hurt me, “but I think that it’s more about us getting harder than any of this getting easier. This is the sort of thing you’ve signed up for here, with us. You still alright taking that risk?”

His question makes me pause, and I honestly don’t know the answer. I don’t know whether leaving Valentine is truly worth all of this. The blood, the death, the fear. I don’t know. I don’t know whether I want to stay here and watch myself become hardened to the world in that awful way, where I barely blink when someone is murdered in front of me. 


	9. Chapter 9

My fingers trail over the lettering - Arthur’s lovely, swirling writing - and I smile to myself. I’m going to learn how to  _ read _ . Excitement bubbles within me at the idea of finally being able to sit down and read books like I’ve seen my father do, at the thought of being able to understand the words written in the pages of old books that always smelled so inviting and warm… I chew the plush of my lower lip and wonder whether I’ll be allowed to read any of the things Arthur writes in his journal. 

After the O’Driscolls had been looted for valuables and dragged from camp - which I was thankfully spared from assisting with on account of being too scrawny to lift a corpse - I was finally allowed to sit down at the table near Arthur’s tent and recite the lettering he’d given me. Nobody pays me much attention while I do.

At first, my letters are all crude and ugly and nothing at all like Arthur’s elegant scrawl, but I take it slow and practice them over and over again until I’ve filled every bare piece of paper I can see on both sides of the sheet. My wrist aches terribly, but I keep going and keep going until I can barely stand the strain. 

Even then, I’m reluctant to fold away the paper, quite content to sit and stare at the lovely letters that Arthur had written for me, but when the daylight starts to fade and Tilly comes over to me with a lantern, I find my cheeks heating with embarrassment. Nobody else need know that I’m learning my letters. So I tuck the pages into each other and start to fold-

Only to see a sketch on the back of Arthur’s page. 

It’s the stag I’d commented on, staring into my eyes as though it was right there in front of me. My fingers dance over the page and I can’t help the smile that kisses my features. I wonder to myself whether Arthur had drawn it from memory, or if he’d taken the time to find a deer like that and sit with the wild beast to sketch out its likeness. There’s a little writing beneath it, though it hadn’t been there earlier when I’d seen it in Arthur’s book. I can pick out the letters on their own, but can’t quite make out the sounds they should make. Perhaps I could get him to read it to me.

“What you got there, Miss Reid?” Tilly asks me, leaning close. Instinctively, I fold it up - making sure to keep the stag on the inside of the paper to keep it as pristine as I can - and tuck it between my breasts. I don’t suppose it matters whether she sees it, but some childish part of me wants to keep it a secret.

“Nothing, it’s silly.”

She slides onto the seat beside me and nudges me with her shoulder, “A love letter from some paramour? Miss Reid, I didn’t know you the kind.”

I swat away her playful accusation. “Naw, nothing of the kind. Ain’t a man interested in me anyhow.”

“A woman?”

“None of those either, Miss Jackson. I don’t imagine a girl like me is much interest to anyone for much except shooting and selling guns,” I tell her, though when Tilly quirks a skeptical brow I wonder how wrong I could be. I snort out a laugh; “Why, Miss Jackson, you tellin’ me you’re interested? I’m not much into women, but I’m flattered.”

She laughs - a lovely, joyous sound that makes me glad to have escaped Valentine to enjoy - and shakes her head. “Miss Reid, you’re a strange one. I could tell you that most of the men here would fall over themselves for you if you so much as bat an eyelash in their direction.. Though I think your eyes are set on a difficult man indeed.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, though I can already feel the heat creeping up my neck and prickling at my cheeks. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Miss Jackson.”

Tilly shoots me a glare. “Ain’t no need to call me  _ Miss Jackson _ and you know it. What I’m talking about is that blind goddamn fool of a man Mister-”

“Miss Reid, could I speak with you a moment?” Hosea is waving me over, and in that thankful moment, I could kiss the man for interrupting Tilly when he did. Instead of doing so, however, I simply grinned and leapt from my seat. “I promise you it won’t take too long. I’d just like a quick word, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Mister… I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your last name,” I realise, “What is it that you might be needing, Sir?”

He wrinkles his nose at me before indicating that I should take a seat. “Please, Hosea is just fine, Miss Reid. I’m not much one for formalities, you see, and you seem to be a part of our little family here now, so there isn’t much use in being so formal now, is there?”

“I suppose not, Hosea, but if that’s the case, surely you should be at least calling me Violet?” I reply, wondering exactly where he’s going with this.

“Of course. How rude of me. Violet. I have a small favour to ask of you, you see. Now, I hope that this doesn’t seem terribly rude of me - what with you only just moving here with us, and not even having your own tent yet - but I’m aware that you have quite the eye. You’re not so new to this shooting business, are you?” He tiptoes around the subject quite carefully. “I’d like to ask you if you’d be quite willing to go on a hunting trip. I’m getting quite old, or else I’d go with him myself.”

“With whom?”

Hosea pours me a little whiskey into a mug and I take it gratefully into my hands while he continues to dance around the subject. “Now, I know that this might seem a little improper, to be forced to first take his tent as your own and then to be asked to go on a hunting trip with the man and-”

“I’ll go, should you like me to.” I tell him, with a smile. Even as I utter the words, I find a snake coiling around my chest and squeezing at the thought of spending so much time with Arthur. I tell myself that it’s because he’ll teach me more of my letters. “When would you like us to leave?”

“First thing in the morning. And Violet, don’t let that stubborn fool drive you too mad. He’s got a good heart, though I’m not so sure he can see that himself,” Hosea tells me, as though I might have had any doubts on the matter. I decide not to give him the satisfaction of me saying  _ I know _ , and instead just give him a smile and sip at my whiskey.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s almost midnight by the time I finally decide to retire to bed. After I’d spoken with Hosea, Tilly had tugged me away to the fire, where she and Abigail sat with me a while. I mostly kept quiet - my own life being entirely uninteresting, and just a little tragic - and listened to the others share their stories. I’m left with sore cheeks and an aching belly when the women tell me some of the more light-hearted stories about their time with these outlaws, and I start to wonder why I had ever doubted coming here to join them. After all, I’ve been here hardly a week and I already feel as though this is the family I’d never had.

There’s a light buzz of alcohol in my system from what little I’ve had, but where I’m tipsy, Tilly is just plain drunk. She stumbles a little as I help her back to her own bed, giggling like a child all the while; she thanks me and pats my cheek - telling me some nonsense or other about menfolk around here being _somethin’ else_ and how I picked the damned stubbornest of them all. I hum at her, neither in agreement nor disagreement, and tuck her into bed. She plants a kiss on the back of my hand and bids me goodnight, and I slip away to find my own bed.

In the dark, with only the dim light of the fire in the distance, I almost don’t see Arthur lying in the cot. His journal is flopped open on his chest, slumped down from where he’s clearly been sat sketching - or writing - and has fallen asleep where I would normally rest. I can’t bring myself to be mad about it, even if my bed has been reclaimed by its owner for the night.

I extract the journal from his hands and fold it away under the cot, where it’s less likely to be read by unsuspecting eyes. I’m tempted to sit and flick through the pages, to examine his lovely handwriting and see all of those incredible sketches, but I bite my lip and hide the journal for him anyway. It’d be rude of me to go through his journal without him knowing.

“You’re an exasperating man, Mister Morgan,” I hum, mostly to myself, as I cover him with one of the blankets. He shifts slightly, mumbling something under his breath as I try to cover him, but quickly settles again. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve reached up with one hand to brush away a loose lock of hair from his face, only for my cheeks to heat when I realise how intimate the touch was. “G’night, Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

When I wake in the morning, I'm curled up on the cot I'd tucked Arthur into, wrapped up in blankets that still smell like him. I stretch, languid as a cat, and slip out of bed. Briefly, I find myself missing the luxury of a real bed - the feather softness of the bedsheets - but brush it away with the memory of what sleeping in that bed meant for me.

“Get ready to leave, Miss Reid,” I hear Arthur call from the other side of the crates shielding me from his view, “We're heading out in twenty minutes.”

I groan and mutter something about him being _insufferable_ before rolling out of bed. A glance briefly into the mirror Arthur has near his cot and rake my hands through my wild red hair, hoping to tame it even a little before facing the rest of the camp. I make a mental note to myself to grab a comb at the next opportunity, and - after a quick glance at my dirty shirt and pants - some more clothes.

“I packed most of my things last night while you were asleep, but…” I falter, a frown playing across my features. I’m certain that when I fell asleep, it was on the floor at Arthur’s feet rather than in the cot I’d tucked him into.

His head pops into view from the other side of the crates, “Miss Reid, you should really wake me should it happen again. I didn’t mean to fall asleep-”

I wave his apology away, meeting him around the other side to find him packing his horse’s saddlebags, my own laid out beside them, mostly already packed. “Don’t you be silly, Arthur - Mister Morgan - you were _tired_. I wasn’t going to wake you just to steal your own bed from you. I’m assuming that you were the one to move me?”

“I was, Miss Reid.”

I press my lips against the rough, dark stubble of his cheek in thanks. He’s shaved, I notice, as I retreat back to my own saddle. I bite my lip and, before I can help it, I say, “You shaved again? I thought the beard was rather handsome, Mister Morgan.”

With those words, I grab my saddle and saddlebags and make my way over to my piebald mare. I waste no time in tacking up, but I’m still fastening the girth-strap when Arthur lifts his saddle over the back of his own horse.

“So, did Hosea tell you what exactly we’re going to be hunting?” I ask, glancing over at him. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and I could swear that his face is a little flushed, and I wonder whether I’ve annoyed him with my comment. I chew my lip. At this rate, I think to myself, I’ll have gnawed a hole through my lip by next Tuesday.

Arthur finishes tacking his own horse, slipping rifles and pistols and bows away into their allocated slots on his saddle, and mounts. I wonder whether he’s heard me at all as I swing my leg over the mare, and I’m about to ask him again when he finally deigns to reply.

“There’s a rare bison some way off in the Grizzlies he wants us to find. Said it’s real important that we go look for it - we could use the hide. I think the word he used for it was _legendary_ , but I ain’t all that sure.” He tells me.

“We’re going all the way up the Grizzlies to find a bison? Wouldn’t we have more luck on the plains?” I ask, a frown peppering my features. “What does it matter that the thing is white?”

Arthur shrugs and clicks his tongue, encouraging the horse to move out. “Ain’t my place to question what the man wants. If he wants us to hunt this bison, we’ll hunt him.”

With a vague, noncommittal waves back in the direction of camp, Arthur makes his goodbye. He doesn’t give me time for any real farewells, though I catch Tilly and Abigail waving me off, young Jack joining the pair. Hosea stands to one side and gives me a nod, and I swear I catch a grin kissing his old, mischievous features as he says something to the two women. They both laugh, and give me an even broader grin.

Frowning, I turn and urge my horse into a trot, quickly catching up with Arthur, though I can’t help but wonder whether Hosea had asked me to partner with Arthur for another reason than to hunt some great bison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {I'm sorry that the last two chapters have been so short. The next one should be longer! <3 Thank you for being patient with me!}


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {Please note that I am uncertain as to whether I will be continuing this fic. If you have any ideas, or would like to continue it yourself, please feel free to do so as long as you don't take credit for the parts I have written. I'm really sorry for ditching this story, my mental and physical health has been awful recently and I've lost the inspiration for this. I hope to start a new fiction when my mental health improves. <3 Thank you all for your support. Love you!}

 

On the first day we make good time, though we do ride a longer route around Valentine – something Arthur does without me asking him to, but only does so for my sake. If my father had seen me riding west with a strange man after having abandoned the store, my life, and _him_ … I suppress a wince and urge my horse to move faster.

Arthur doesn’t talk much, I find, until we’re miles from town. It’s not until Valentine is a small cluster of buildings on the horizon and the sun has risen high enough to hang over the buildings, basking it in a warm orange glow, that he drops his pace down to match mine. Our horses trot side by side in the mid-morning heat. “Miss Reid, might I ask y’something?”

“Sure. We’ll be out here a long while; we should likely get to talking some time or another, right? I hate the quiet; it makes me feel crazy,” I tell him, glad that he’s finally breaking the silence between us. Treading so close to Valentine in the quiet has made me anxious and eager to think of anything except that _place_. “What is it, Mister Morgan?”

“You see, it’s that,” he starts, and removes his hat for a moment to run a hand through his hair - a nervous habit of sorts, I’ve noticed - and replaces that worn old gambler hat atop his head. He glances across at me, “How is it that you call Hosea by his first name? You’ve known him only five or six days, an’ I’d say you’ve known me a week or so now. You still call me Mister Morgan, but Hosea by his first name?”

“Why, are you jealous?” I grin, unable to resist the temptation to tease him. He falters, stammering a little, before giving me a firm _no_ and insisting that it was just out of curiosity. I can’t fight the twist of disappointment in my chest, but smile through it. “Well, Arthur, the reason I so insist on calling him Hosea is simply because I do not know his last name. Besides, I’ve asked you to call me Violet before, and all I ever hear from you is _Miss Reid_.”

“Vi-”

“Violet is the only thing I have left of my mother - it’s all she ever gave me - and I like it. My da is the one who gave me the name _Reid_ , and that man hasn’t been anything but…” I exhale and run a hand over my face, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t mean to snap at you so. I just… I get mad - thinking about what things were like. It was only a week ago that I left.”

We fall silent. He doesn’t try to pick up the conversation for a while, and I count the hoofbeats of our horses while I wait for him to say something - anything - to me. Perhaps, I consider, I could have been a little more gentle with the subject. I could have just apologised for the formality and started calling him Arthur without giving any real reason, but even as my mind brews up a dozen reasons for him to be mad with me and a dozen more things I could have said to have been more gentle, I can’t find myself at all regretting what I’ve already let myself say.

“Miss, I…” he tries, at long last, only to falter and fall silent once more.

So we continue like this, without speaking a word to one another, going some way without so much as glancing in the other’s direction. There’s not very much left that I could say to him, in my mind. I’ve already, frankly, said a little too much to the man than I care to admit.

“Violet… I’d like to apologise for asking you that. I’m-”

“No.”

He tugs back in the reins until his horse huffs and grinds to a halt. “What do you mean, _no_?”

“I mean, I’m not having you apologise for something like that. It’s damned stupid. You asked me a question and I answered you - it’s not your fault that I got myself worked up, is it?” I tell him, turning the mare to face him and halting. “Others can be sorry. The people of Valentine can be _sorry_ all they goddamn like, and I’ll still spit on any patch of dirt they’re buried in, but not you. You helped me get out of that place and I won’t ever forget that. If you want to know why I so readily came with you, I’ll tell you everything… but not yet, alright? I’m not ready to open that door, Arthur Morgan, but when I am, I swear to you that you’ll be the first to know.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said that the man looked shocked by what I’ve said. Arthur takes a moment to respond before he says to me, “Thank you, Violet.”

“For what?”

“For bein’ honest about it. Most of us ain't so truthful with our past,” he says. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his saddle and clears his throat. With a click of his tongue, his horse breaks into a canter, leaving me to follow in his wake. Leaving me wondering whether Arthur is one of those men who ‘ain’t so truthful’.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to continue this fic, though I'm still not sure. Thank you all for keeping up with me <3

We talk, a lot. By the time the sun rides low on the horizon, the tone of Arthur’s voice has me lolling in the saddle, dozing in and out of sleep. I keep jerking myself awake, rubbing the heel of my palms into my eyes and suppressing a yawn, but at some point in the evening Arthur must yoke my mare to his and guide us from the beaten track.

“Come on now, let’s get you down off of that horse,” he says as two rough, calloused hands slip about my waist and tug me out of the saddle, leaving me suddenly in his arms. I’m still only halfway awake when he carries me from the horse over to where he’s set up his tent but I vaguely realise that I’m pressing closer into his chest, inhaling that lovely mix of leather, gun-oil, and Arthur. I mumble something of a satisfied groan into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Each word he utters a hum in his chest as he says, “I didn’t realise I was so borin’, Miss Violet.”

“Y’ain’t,” I manage through an obnoxious yawn before curling back into Arthur’s chest, “but y’ sure is comfy, and _warm_ , Mister Morgan.”

 

 

Once again, I find myself stretching out on a sleeping roll that I don’t recall falling asleep in. I don’t doubt that Arthur is the one who put me here, though the thought doesn’t really occur to me until I sit up to rub the rheum from my eyes and a heavy fur coat falls from my shoulders into my lap. My fingers trail over the sheepskin lining of Arthur’s lovely blue coat and, without thinking, I raise it to my face. It still smells like him.

“Hey, you awake yet?” His voice jolts me back to reality and I yank the coat down, away from my face as though I’ve been caught red-handed doing something I shouldn’t. I shout something of an affirmation before smoothing down my clothes – the same ones I fell asleep in last night – and crawl out of the tent.

My companion is grouched in front of a small fire, stirring something in the tin pot that’s nestled over the flame. An empty tin of beans is discarded by the fire beside two wooden bowls. I take a seat beside him; “Why, _Arthur_ , are you cooking me breakfast?”

His mouth twitches, threatening a smile. I watch him for a moment longer and I find myself wondering what exactly I did to find myself here, in the middle of nowhere, with a man such as Arthur and on the run from my own father. The thought sends a thrill of excitement through me.

It’s only when I hear the beans starting to sear, burning against the bottom of the pan, that I huff out a laugh and nudge him out of the way. I take the spoon from him, our fingers grazing as I do so. “Let me; you’re burning them, Arthur.”

“’m sorry,” he mutters. I glance up to see that pink hue has coloured his cheeks once more, though he hides it quickly by getting to his feet, clearing his throat, and wandering away from the fire. For a moment, I watch him go. Rolling my eyes, I serve up the bowls – one with more than the other – and follow him.

“ _You’re a god damned fool, Arthur Morgan_ ,” he’s grumbling to himself as I approach. I slow down to give him a moment, “ _can’t do a damned thing without showing yourself t’be as dumb as a sack of rocks. No wonder you’re still alone at your age… burning beans. Burning the damned beans, you ugly old fool._ ”

Something twists in my chest at his words and at the way he’s talking to himself. Truthfully, I’d been more than a little curious about how he hadn’t found a woman to make an honest (or dishonest) man out of him. I’d assumed he just hadn’t found a woman he’d liked enough to settle down with, but I feel my heart break for him when I realise that he doesn’t think he’s worthy of being loved. Doesn’t think he’s worthy of a woman. I wait a moment longer before I close the distance between us, hoping to save him the embarrassment of thinking I’d heard any of that.

“Breakfast is ready, Arthur.” I hold out the bowl with a bigger portion. He nods and takes it quietly, muttering a short ‘thank you’.

“You’ve made a real habit out of caring for me, Arthur… thank you. I don’t have the right words to tell you how good a man you are.” I find myself leaning up to press my lips against his stubbled cheek for the second morning in a row, and I wonder whether this is a habit I might get into. I wouldn’t mind it. With that thought, I eat my breakfast and we pack up to move.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the journey goes much the same way: we ride all day and make camp as it gets dark, wake up early, and repeat. In all, we make good time. By the time we reach the point on Arthur’s map that says precisely where that white bison should be, I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes, fingers or my nose. Arthur has offered me that blue fleece of his more than once, but I’ve told him that if he asks again that I’ll kick him off his horse, so he just keeps looking at me with a furrowed brow.

“I think we’re here,” I say through chattering teeth, “It’s getting dark though. Sh-should we camp for the night?”

But by the time I’ve finished speaking and turned to face him, he’s already dismounted and has started pitching the tent. I wince as I follow suit, my joints stiff, frozen, and sore. While Arthur sets about setting up camp, I make it my task to collect firewood. My fingers are so numb even under the gloves I’m wearing that it’s difficult for me to hold onto the branches of dry wood I manage to collect. Even so, I do my best and I don’t return to camp until my teeth can’t stop chattering, my cheeks sting from the cold, and my arms are full of dried twigs and branches.

The tent is up and Arthur is pacing back and forth, his hands cupped to his face as he tries to breathe some hot air onto his extremities. He’s already cleared a space in the snow for the fire for me to dump the kindling onto. “Okay, let’s get this fire going and warm ourselves up a little. You hungry? We still have the rabbit we caught earlier.”

“A fire sounds great… remind me never t’go on one of these damned hunting trips for Hosea again. I feel like I only just got out of this goddamned snow, and now I’m knee deep in the stuff again,” Arthur grumbles, collecting the rabbit from the back of my horse while I kindle the flame.

Our meal doesn’t take very long to cook, nor does it take long to eat. Before the sun has fully set below the horizon, we’ve picked the small mammal’s bones clean of any meat, and we’ve tossed the tiny bones back onto the fire. We’re both still hungry, though there’s little that can be done about that, and we’re both hugging ourselves for warmth.

I suck in a deep breath and huddle into Arthur. He stiffens with my new proximity. Normally, I’d retreat back to my own space, but I start to think my fingers will turn blue if I don’t warm myself up anytime soon. “I’m so cold, Arthur.”

“I know, darlin’, but we’ll be out of here soon.” The low timbre of his voice reverberating through me and pooling deep in the pit of my belly. I want to curl up closer to him and let that voice wash over me. I want him to call me _darlin’_ more.

I clear my throat and sit up – realising how utterly stupid I was being. Between the exhaustion, hunger, and cold, I’ve clearly slipped into delirium. “Apologies, Mister Morgan. I should get some rest; I’m just cold and tired and hungry.”

“O’course, Miss Violet. I’ll let you get to bed – I’ll sit out here and keep watch,” Arthur offers with a small, reluctant smile.

I pull a face, already aware of what I’m about to offer even though I _know_ he’ll think less of me for doing so, “Arthur, you’ll be freezing sitting out here all night. That tent is big enough for us both to fit inside, isn’t it? We’ll be warmer if we share body heat.”

The way Arthur looks at me could thaw this whole mountainside. It’s as though I’ve asked him to wed me instead of simply sharing a little warmth on a freezing cold night. Something deep in me writhes in delight at the expression. I feel my cheeks turn a rosy hue that I cannot wholly contribute to the chilly weather.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always happy to receive feedback on my work. Please don't hesitate to leave me a comment letting me know what you think, or message me to give me constructive criticism. While this isn't my *best* work, it's still something I love and hope to improve as time goes on. I'd love to hear what you love and why you love it, what you hate and why, or even just passing comments about what you think I might have planned for Arthur and Violet. <3


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